People Watching
by Shiggity Shwa
Summary: A look into the future of the Team One members. Set season 5 or later. Lew's POV.
1. Champagne Clichés

_A/N: Hey guys, this was just a really weird idea that came to me that I could not not write. Mainly because it's just so freaking weird. Also because it's from Lew's POV. There's only going to be five shortest chapters (my cut off is 5000 words), each one focusing on one of the team members. But they had to be on the team when Lew was (and still on the team (sorry no Wordy or Raf (or Leah or Donna or blah blah blah))). This chapter is Sam.  
Also it's not like Just-World or Elysian Fields where everything is overly described. It's really straightforward, but I find it the most confusing. Maybe because there are so many rules to figment Lew. So if you have any questions feel free to PM me.  
Oh also I have no idea how to categorize this mofo.  
_

**Disclaimer: I own nothing**

People Watching

Chapter 1

Champagne Clichés

So there's nothing to do. Absolutely nothing. It's not all gated communities nestling on fluffy clouds, softer than the touch of any woman's skin, yet still stable enough to hold up a fountain carved in his likeness with ginger beer spurting from his mouth. Then again, it's not all fire and brimstone, since he sort of went through that with a certain foot click. No tiny little demons stabbing pitchforks into his ass and flaying his flesh from his body. Should be more grateful.

It's a little bit of everything and a little bit of nothing. He has a body. His body. Same height, same weight, same muscles, same skin, same scars, minus the missing limbs and organs he only experienced for a cancelled breath. On bad days. On days he still feigns emotions his concentration lapses. Left arm gone. Right hand gone. Like a disturbing game of twister. Just bloody stumps not bleeding. Too many ivory bones scatter. Torso openly frowning at him with charred innards.

He's not a ghost. For the love of God, he can't explain how much he's not a ghost. Can't touch things. Can't channel electricity, or make the lights flicker. Can't touch people or communicate with them. Can't possess them, make them act as conduits. Can't do anything but be around them. Sometimes, the people who knew him, the perceptive ones will squint an eye or check over their shoulder. An old Jewish woman threw salt at him once.

Doesn't know how long he's been dead because time stops when life does. He doesn't sleep. Doesn't have a schedule, a motive or a boss, but he's not on Earth every day. Maybe he's in stasis because there are too many dead guys floating around. He's never seen another one. Doesn't have any dead relatives so it makes sense that he's utterly alone for eternity. Everything bible black and then all of a sudden in the middle of the Eaton's Center.

The thing is, he can go anywhere. The tops of mountains. The stratosphere. Back to Ocho Rios. But memories grow old like clothing. The fabric is ratty and worn. Holes appear and he can't fill them because he has no anchor. No one to help him. So he stops walking the Great Wall and starts seeking out the people he knew.

Being around people, it restores his personality. When the basic concepts of being human are destroyed, humanity suffers. Doesn't feel pain, so he doesn't sympathize. Can't die, so he doesn't fear. Still has a basic innate fear, one instilled since birth. Letting down his parents, and it's why he can't go to his house. As much as he longs to hear his mom's voice or pretend to smell her cooking, he doesn't want to show up and view his parents' lives in shambles.

So he follows the people who mean the second most. The people who are still somewhat of a family despite it being what he thinks are years. He's seen a few different snows befall his own grave. Wishes there was a way to tell time. Every time he passes a calendar, the days turn into checkerboards. Melt from the paper and crawl across the floor.

Doesn't know what year it is, but it's winter. Probably the ass end, because the snow is sleety. Wet and heavy like slobbering rain. Can't feel temperatures, just snow pelting him in the back of his shaved head. Pops up downtown. Slides into the back of various cabs until he gets within walking distance of the SRU.

By that time it's almost end of shift because the guys are gathered in the locker room. His locker is off limits. His plaque a 'do not resuscitate' order. No one's used it since him. Sarge cleaned it out. Wasn't there to see it, but just innately knows. Like how people know lyrics to a song. Or what goddamn year it is. Knows a lot now, too much sometimes. Too much.

"Any plans tonight?" Sarge asks over his shoulder.

The inside of Sarge's locker is pasted with pictures of a woman he doesn't remember and a kid he doesn't know. When did this happen? Then he knows the kid is Dean. Came back, wants to be a cop. It's an ongoing familial arguement. And the woman is his girlfriend, a case of faulty hero worship turned true love.

None of the guys answer. Spike yanks on a shirt, distorting and bending at the door to his locker. The woman decorating the inside is finally not Mama Scarlatti. Ed shakes his head while packing his bag, providing only a coy smirk and a ticking finger. Sam ducks his head while tying his shoes.

"Really?" Sarge's breathless chuckle is mocking. "The most romantic holiday of the year and none of you have plans?"

"Maybe we don't feel like sharing them Greg?"

"Yeah Boss." Not a single sliver of metal pokes through the collage of pictures on Spike's door. Who the hell is this girl? It's not Bridget. She had red hair. Stands before door, hands on his hips and narrows his eyes at a strip of photo booth pictures. Her sitting in Spike's lap. Him resting his chin on her shoulder. Her kissing his cheek. And the last one of them pulling stupid faces. "I'm all embracing the team but if you need sex tips check the internet."

His nose almost presses through the picture when the information leaks into his head. Imagines it as all bright green ones and zeros on a black background. "Shit Spike." Chuckles and wavers his head. Fingers rub at his forehead as familiar grooves from laughing embed themselves. He's missed them. Missed this.

"Very funny." Sarge acts annoyed but he enjoys it. Enjoys it because changes are going to happen soon. They're already in motion, which might be why he came back. He feels it in the room. Like standing in carbonated water. The atmosphere tickles like insect legs across his skin.

Spike grins and reaches right through his chest for the locker door. A regular occurrence. They don't know part of him still slightly exists. He'll never talk, touch, smell or thankfully taste them again. But he's still with them. Sometimes.

Ed zips up his bag and rolls his eyes, unseen by the rest of the team. "Well, Clark's going out with his new girl friend so—"

Misses Spike the most. Hangs around him the most, but must've been snuffed out for too long last time. Knows Spike's dad died. Then his mom. Knows him dying must not have been easy because it was the first domino in a landslide. But now he has her. And her out of everyone. Goddamn. "You did good, Man."

Spike stops his movements. Immediately halts them. The strap of his gym bag flutters to the ground as his neck wrenches up. Stares directly at him. Directly through him. He's one of the intuitive ones. Probably thinks he's going insane, but the corner of his lips slant into the slightest of smiles.

Across the room, Sam stands from the bench. His watch hinge gets caught on his jacket. Something so predictable. Could've sat back with an untouchable, unscented, unflavored bag of popcorn, pointed at the room and called it. Something topples tap dancing onto the floor. The guys, himself included, form a semicircle around the object as Sam flushes red.

Ed speaks, the first one to lose interest and turn away. "No plans tonight, eh Braddock?"

"I never said I didn't have any plans."

"So you're going to ask her?" Sarge picks up the gray ring box and offers it to Sam, who appears almost hesitant to accept it.

"What about not being cliché? Isn't tonight a cliché? I mean why don't you just stick it in a glass of champagne and get it over with?"

"Why doesn't he just throw it in her face? Jeez Ed." Spike plucks the box from Sam's hand, dusting it off. "It's a hard thing to do. I know when I proposed to— Holy shit Sam, why didn't you just buy her a French villa."

Too much information at once. Marriage. Everyone getting married. Sarge with a girlfriend. Spike with a fiancé. Sam proposing. The four lobes of his brain attached and driving in opposite directions. The gamble of losing phantom limbs comes into play, so he concentrates on the piece of jewelry sitting on the silk pad. The ring is, well the ring is huge. Not huge in size but diamonds are almost seeded completely around the band. Just everywhere. Will probably drip out and trail down her finger.

"This is why I didn't want you guys to know." Sam mutters, his lips barely breaking from each other as he slings his coat over his back.

Spike raises the box to the lights, ready to give a toast. There are solar flares smaller than the beams crashing against the legion of diamonds. He lowers it and in a gentle voice questions, "Is this because you guys had a fight?"

"Oh ho." Ed chuckles and stops short of pushing through the door. "I thought you guys were perfect."

"I'm done talking about this." Sam snatches the box back. Snaps it closed and shoves it back in his pocket. Nostrils flare a little as he collects his bag and exits the locker room. Comes off like he's ashamed of his idea. Ashamed of showing his love. A love relevant when he was still alive.

Sarge shuts his locker. Still does it without much reverberation. His old boss doesn't say much so it's hard to establish his reaction. It might be because he's been in stasis so long he forgets the essential emotional equations. The basic tells and marks people get in their faces. "Sam wouldn't buy her a ring because she got upset with him."

Spike's lips twitch. And even though there's a whole separate dimension separating them, his best friend glances over at him. Like the both know what happened because they do. Spike heard it through his fiancé and he inadvertently read too much into Sam which revealed a childhood with an emotionally and sometimes physically abusive father, the months spent crying at night from an incident of friendly fire, the swirl in his chest for her which is so heavy and full it presupposes all his other thoughts. More recently his purchase of the ring a year ago, Spike proposing two months ago, and the argument two nights ago in which Sam—

"He's pissed off at her."

Blips out after that. Spends some time in limbo. Can't really say how long, but just replays the locker room scene in his mind like a soap opera because if he doesn't he'll forget it. It's a blessing and a curse. Can look at anyone and know every single occurrence, positive and negative in their life up to the present but can't remember things he semi-experienced.

When he returns it's dark out. The street lights are smothered by hurdling sleet. Beside him in Queen's Park a squirrel bounces over the accumulating slush. Wants to know what happened. Tonight is a dangerous night to be visiting. The most romantic night of the year. No one wants to see their friends in the middle of—but he wants to know what happened. So it's why he only looks for Sam.

His apartment is empty. Her house is empty. He wonders if the world got hit by an epidemic. Wonders why the hell they wouldn't come hang out with him. He knows all the best spots. But then figures they might have gone out. This is where that wealth of information becomes disturbing, because from studying Sam he knows they had their first kiss outside of the Royal York.

So he's there. Inside the lobby, leaning over the receptionist's shoulder. Points at the computer screen. "No, man. Go into bookings."

"Royal York." The Receptionist answers the phone.

"Bookings."

"A room for tonight?"

"Book-ings."

"No, I'm sorry. We're all booked for tonight."

"Man, you didn't even look," he yells to himself and punches a fist through the back of the guy's skull. Of course it doesn't do anything. He likes to think the guy will get a headache later, but no. The air current doesn't even change.

Tried to use his skewed view of time to see Sam check in. What room he had. But this idiot started his shift late. He also suffers from a massive fear of clowns. So now he's stuck at reception, or doing a sweep of the whole building. Did it once before when he was living. Might be like strolling through the old halls of high school, which he's done and didn't feel a thing. It wouldn't be such a bad idea if it wasn't Valentine's Day. The most awkward thing ever is walking in on people having sex. Even if he's dead.

"Excuse me?"

Stops slamming his fist into the back of the guy's head. Recognizes her instantly. Is used to seeing her zip down a building, right by him. Point her chin out at him in a gloat filled grin. But she's on the other side of the desk. Coat bumpy, hair clumpy and wet. Drops of snow melting and sliding down her face. She doesn't look like he remembers. Doesn't look content or healthy.

The receptionist lifts his head once and drops it back to the keyboard which he's only pretending to type on. "The employee entrance is around back."

He punches the guy in the head again. Grunts with the strength he uses.

"No, I have a room reserved here. It's under Braddock."

She convinces the receptionist by divulging more personal information than a credit card company needs. He apologies profusely, makes with the pleasantries and offers the room key. She doesn't say a word, which is unlike her. Normally, she would've bitched him into the corner of the room and slammed her knee into the back of his neck.

He has a conscious goal is not to read into her or Spike. Doesn't want to know their childhoods, or sordid pasts. They were friends. Doesn't want to taint the memories of their friendship and anything they openly told him with memories he stole.

She huddles compact in the corner of the empty massive elevator. Coat folded around her body and once smug chin tucked against her chest. The gold plates teepeeing behind her mirror her sorrow; don't reduce any hurt by having a polished exterior.

"He loves you, Jules." Informs her from the other corner. Hand reaching, fingers just shy of brushing her coat sleeves where she buried her hands. "Dude loves you so much it's kinda scary. I can't feel anything and I can almost feel his love for you."

Hand is rediscovered among the cavernous sleeves and she flicks away a tear from her eye. She sniffs once and sighs, voice full of pain and morose. "I think that's what might scare you. I don't think anyone has ever truly loved you."

The elevator convulses and her hand slaps down on the railing to keep stable. Right over his hand. Her face skews, glossy eyes jittering in confusion at the sensation. Apparently she's one of the people who can sense him. "He loves you Jules. You love him too. That's all you need. There's nothing to be afraid of."

Gets to the room before her. She's hesitating and he doesn't know how long he has before he'll pop out. The room is the ring, only, well in room form. Beautiful, extravagant. There's food and champagne and he hopes to God he pops out before anything physical happens. Just needs them to keep their clothes on.

Sam's pacing back and forth. He's wearing a white dress shirt and black slacks. Her complete coin flip. A fifty-fifty chance. Phone at his ear and his eyebrows fallen in worry. Index finger dipping just inside his lip. The love in his chest is diluted and pounding.

"Jules, it's me again." There isn't a string of impatience in his voice. Not a particle of anything negative towards her because he knows. He's seen her past without seeing her past. Whatever he did or said to her two days ago made her a complete wreck and he knows it. "Please, Sweetheart. Just—Just call me back. I won't even answer. I'll let it go to voice mail. Just let me—"

There's a knock at the door and he wants to slap the stupid phone out of his hand. Sam's eyes scroll up and then to a pendulumed wall clock. He can't decipher the time because the numbers are all in ancient Sumerian. They jiggle, and then dissolve to a white face. "Just let me know you're safe. I love you Jules."

Tosses the phone through him onto the couch cushion. It bounces once and hits the floor. He slides his arm over the back of the material trying to copy a comfortable position even though he doesn't remember what comfort feels like anymore. "Phone's on the floor."

Sam doesn't listen. For obvious reasons. Opens the door and finds her disheveled, wet, and depressed. She's dressed in sweatpants and her coat, he now realizes, is Sam's because there is a positive agreement flowing off the coat and him. Plus it droops to her knees. She sniffs once.

"Oh thank God." Sam's already embracing her. Despite the supposed fight. Despite the water from her hair and skin permeating his shirt.

"Haven't met him yet." His foot keeps going through Sam's cell as he tries to kick it somewhere they won't step on it. Adds over his shoulder, "But If I do, I'll tell him you're grateful."

The bundle in Sam's chest lightens and glows. It floats when he's with her and he won't let her go. Won't back away from the door even to shut it for privacy. She cries into his shoulder and he lets her without any reservations. Holds the back of her head and kisses her temple.

She breathes in his neck as they block the doorway. Finally Sam slides his hand down her arm, fingers over her fingers and parts from her. Steps back to allow her into the room, and gently shuts the door.

"Sam—"

"Marry me."

"That is definitely not ring in the glass cliché." He coughs to break the silence. Leans forward to check the champagne which is still corked on the side table. Something about it itches him. Has the same false sensation of boiling water, of popping bubbles like he did in the locker room.

Listens to the rest of the proposal as he investigates the bottle. Wishes he could see the past and future of objects. Talk to objects. Wishes he wasn't insane. Wishes he wasn't dead so tomorrow or whenever in this nonlinear time flow he could celebrate with them. Regret is a human feeling. It's a shitty one but he'll take it.

"I'm not doing this because it's Valentine's Day, or because Spike proposed and they've been dating a shorter time than us. I'm doing this because I can't live without you Jules. I can't. The idea of waking up without you next to me, of someone telling me I can't hold you, or touch you or kiss you for the rest of my life is unbearable."

"Yes."

"We don't have to get married right away, I mean we could—"

"She said yes." His face pressing through the bottle he opens his eyes underneath beige colored bubbles. Seems normal. No poison. Who would poison them?

"Sam, enough." Her fingers touch his lips and he feather kisses them. "I said yes."

There's a flash of laughter as he swings her. Love interpreted through dance. Her legs hang out and he catches them, hefting her up. They're all kisses. At first cute engaged couple kisses, then suddenly turn animalistic. Smash into the wall, shaking the sideboard with the champagne. His hand is—And hers is—But then he—And Jesus, he had no idea she was that flexible.

He's dead after all. He's not—dead. But the clatter of the bottle brings them out of lips, tongues, skin and hands. Roving hands, just up and underneath and full of everything. Sam lets her legs drop from around his hips and she stops sucking on his neck to get champagne.

"Holy shit." He shouts as they stare hooded eyed at each other. Finally safe to shuffle out from the bathroom. "Give me warning next time you two go all primal."

If they went into the bathroom he'd have to drop to the basement. Possibly through the Earth. Has never done that before, but he'd rather zip through magma and core than see them have sex if that was a mere glimpse at their four play.

The glasses clink and they consume the alcohol like ambrosia. Actually, like they're at a college kegger and some drunk frat boys are behind them shouting 'chug, chug, chug'. The glasses are refilled consumed and then her coat is off and she's straddling him. She doesn't even have the goddamn ring. He needs to get out of there before she gets the ring.

Sam has the bottle again, he thinks for a third refill but Sam unbuttons the top three buttons on her pajama top and positions to pour champagne so it dribbles down her chest and— he blips out and back into oblivion. He's never been more relieved in his unlife. Relief another human emotion.

"Hey God." He yells and it echoes in the blackness because he's just sort of floating in the suspended animation of space. Maybe in a black hole. Where matter rematerializes. Maybe negative space where everything unfound is found. "If you're here I owe you one."

There's no answer. Doesn't expect one. Would actually be surprised in this point if someone replied to his sarcastic comments. Thinks he's not the same person he was. Well he's not because he's dead, but thinks the lack of interaction changed him. Doesn't have the grounding they all do. Becomes harder. Harsher. More critical.

"Oh." Claps his hands around his mouth, shouting into the void before him which may or may not be a wall. He could be in space. He could be in a box. Maybe he's in his own coffin. "Sam says thank you. "

Another polite refrain for an answer. When there is none, he clarifies, "Sam Braddock."


	2. Dirty Laundry

_A/N:Hey guys, so I already went over my word limit. Not by much. Just by 600.  
Not much else to say really. This chapter is the Jules chapter. I also gave blindingly obvious clues to who Spike's betrothed (why yes this 16th C England) is. So everyone should have that down. Also pretty sure Greg's chapter won't focus that much on him because he's boring as hell and if you want this story finished you won't say a word. NOT A.  
Thanks to everyone who reviewed, favorited, alerted and read.  
OH jeez, I almost forgot there's a **little violence** I guess (I have no idea how to categorize anything). So if you don't like it. Go away. _

People Watching

Chapter 2

Dirty Laundry

The distinguishable features are still void from the face of time. No days like the miniscule hairs and pores camouflaged on to the skin of months. No years of wrinkles worn into those months. Everything is either dark, unmoving, unchanging or sudden pandemic. Scattering bodies at every rotation. They zip through him like subatomic particles. They skitter like mad ants from a crushed hill.

Checks in and out a few more times like a stepparent who drastically wants approval. Doesn't want to smother, because they're still living, and well, he's not. Doesn't want to be a limp, heavy seventh wheel in all their lives. But then there's stasis. Floating in space. An object slowly rotating with no one to revel in his three dimensionality. Tries to pick up momentum, turbine from the spot. But his gym class arm circles do nothing but make him look like an idiot to himself.

By the time he flashes down. He grabs the first one he can find. Develops some serious skill at locating them from clawing into them like a hysteric drowning victim. Gets slammed down at the Eaton's Center and instead of going to Bali, senses Ed, Sophie and Izzy are shopping. Tags them in the food court where Izzy points directly at him and laughs. He smooshes the skin on his face down and then pulls it back. Gives himself an overbite. Stick his tongue out. Normal things people do when they see babies. Because babies can see him. Turn their tiny, chubby faces up at him and let slightly tooth-filled jaws fall slack.

His cheeks puff with unnecessary air and his eyes cross to stare at the tip of his nose. Izzy claps her hands, little bum bouncing in the borrowed wooden highchair.

"Izzy, what's gotten into you?" Ed chuckles at her open guffaws. Collects her into his lap and clears her face of chocolate ice cream.

Follows Spike home to see a real interaction with the Missus. Well, Soon-To-Be-Missus. Expects tempers and sarcasm, maybe even some of that heat he saw at the Royal York. Their apartment is on the fifth floor. He'll face-dive out of the fifth floor before the first bad touch happens. But the apartment is relatively calm.

She checks her watch at quarter to five, stands from the desk she was working at in the corner by the natural light of the windows. A hand smoothes out her clothes. Inherently knows when he's going to open the door. Spike's on the opposite side with slack keys in his hand. She holds the sides of his face and kisses him.

At dinner they start to have an argument because he wants steak and she debates he's had too much dark meat and she doesn't want him to die of a heart attack like his mother. The yelling gains a progressive tone until he finally shouts, "Do you want me to eat these vegetables?"

She shouts back, "It would make me happy to know you're healthy, yes."

"Great." He answers, voice raised even louder, but completely sincere. Sits back down at the table. "Then I will. I don't know what we're shouting for."

And they both act like nothing happens. Spike goes without meat for the night but later she melts against him on the couch. Hugs him like he's the only thing in the world that matters. It must be a familial trait.

Invites himself to a Parker family picnic. Sarge's girlfriend, who he now knows as Marina, made the entire display of food. She should go into partnership with Sophie. The spread looks amazing, coleslaw, potato salad, fried chicken, cold cuts. His mouth almost waters. Almost. She snaps pictures of Sarge and Dean while they play football. Not once during the entire outing does his old boss look longingly at the bottle of wine.

Current manifestation finds him up a block from her house. Figures it's an obvious tilt from the universe to go and visit her. Hasn't personally since things got crazy at the Royal York. He still has a little shame. Can still feel a little residual awkwardness.

The weather is a little overcast, but doesn't threaten to rain. The sky just doesn't exist. It's just a white, flat dome to keep everyone in. Her house is silent. He questions if she's at the SRU. If it's a workday. If she's not out running errands. Her Jeep's in the driveway, but her and Sam could carpool now. But he was drawn here. Can sort of feel her presence much more than she can feel his.

The TV in the front room in on, but the volume is set low. He can't see the screen, just a rapid flicker like strobe lights. Thinks this is how dogs see the TV. The couch has evidence of a body disrupting it. The pillows hunched and punched into the corner. A blanket ruffled and tossed lazily half over the back. The dining room table is littered with a maelstrom of wedding invitations. Gold print on white card inviting lucky people. They eat up the whole table, but none are started, none written on.

Curves upstairs to find an empty bedroom. Bed made tidy. No creases and about five of those decorative pillows stacking out from the headboard. Not a speck of dust hailing in the entire room. On one of the dressers, beside a potted plant, there stand three framed photos. One of the entire Team at the family picnic. The other two of Sam and Jules in embracing poses. Much like the ones Spike has of his Fiancée slobbering the innards of his locker.

He has no sense of time; the word has lost its definition. But is sure their relationship has been public for at least a year based on what he learned from Sam. They're engaged and the only photos of them in the entire house are on a dresser in the bedroom. Still private, still hidden.

The floor creaks behind him. Jules huffs in carrying a basket of laundry. Her hair is up in a loose bun, but wisps drip down free, dangle into her eyes while she shuffles. The cords of her arms stretch and stress under the weight. When the pad of her foot sticks into the spotless hardwood, the basket clatters to the ground. Clothes spill over the lip and slide over the polished floors. She exhales shakily, body still unsound.

"Take it easy, Jules." Her chest, her ribs accordion so quickly there should be a chattering monkey dancing at her feet for coins. He ignores the pictures and the knickknacks on her dresser. Notices the clothing on the floor. A large black shirt, the black sock with a dryer sheet statically clinging to it, the—the—

"Guh. Panties." Whips back so fast he's standing in her dresser, his back to the variety of undergarments on the ground. Some boy shorts and cotton and appropriate. Some all lacy and frilly and— "When the hell did you become so liberal?"

Waits what he believes are a few seconds so she can collect them off the floor, and then peeks over his shoulders. But they're all still there. Mottling the surface like knots in the hardwood. She's perching on the edge of the bed, the black shirt draping over her hands. Head bowed into it as her shoulders row forward. She's so silent it takes him three repetitions to realize she's crying.

"Jules." Keeps his open eyes on her, not on the floor full of potential secondary landmines. Sure he's still wearing shoes, the shoes he touched the first landmine with, and they would just go through her panties, to the floor because he can't touch corporeal things. But it's that lingering humanistic feeling of shame. Of awkwardness. "What's going on?"

Doesn't glance up, just rests wet cheeks against the shirt material. Inhales and sobs with a tiny hiccup.

"Where's Sam?" Pivots on his heels in the center of the room like Sam is going to walk out of the closet and wave. He's obviously not home. Did they have another fight or—"Is he at work?" Answers his own question quickly because then he won't have to think of the alternative.

Settles on the bed next to her, places a hand on her shoulder and it plunges right through. Continues through her hip and thigh, and to the mattress. "He's at work right? If you need him I'll go there. I'll think of a way to get him to come home."

He's not at work. Why would Sam be at work if she isn't? But she's in the house. And the invitations aren't finished. And she's sobbing into his shirt. And he's not here. He's not there.

His right hand is gone. Just the stump of a pig's leg hanging in the window at a butcher's shop. Because he knows what they went through. He's knows what it's like from this side. He knows how much the rest of them need each other to survive. Like an ecosystem, one organism can't be removed if they're all supposed to thrive.

"Did Sam die?"

Left arm poofs away. Smoke and mirrors like a Las Vegas stage show. He's pacing around the room like an animal to slaughter with incomplete puzzle arms. Doesn't want to find out what happens if he gets to the state he was in when he took his last breath. Wonders if it completes the cycle. Wonders if that ends it. Wonders if it makes him start over again. Over from the beginning.

Crouches at her jostling knees. Her eyes are distant. A tear rolls at infinitesimal speed from the curl of her lashes to Sam's shirt. Splotches the fabric, permeates the neighboring threads.

"Where is he?"

A horrific noise shrieks from the ensuite. A constant buzz. Mechanical but almost musical like a stuck doorbell. She launches from the bed, right through him with the speed of a tackle. "Are you cooking in the bathroom? What the fuck are you cooking in the bathroom?"

Doesn't understand. The confusion. The mild memories of lying. Lying in pieces in sand like buried treasure. Phantom limbs actually somewhat phantom. The weakest pain licking at him. It's so dull, it's frozen because he is. Can't feel anything, never will again. But he knows the fear. Felt it for the millisecond dragged out for the eternity it took for him to die. When he was in real pieces.

Braiding with the confusion is the rage. He can't understand her. Doesn't understand why she's distressed, or where Sam is. Even if he could, he couldn't help her because he doesn't exist. He doesn't exist and that pisses him off because he did. He had a birth certificate which was ultimately negated by his death certificate and it was like he never even mattered. He never mattered.

Torso grows a frown. A true gummy frown with less teeth than Izzy. Bisects to reveal the game of operation. The white but charred internal organs. All look like rotten sausages. "No, don't tell me. I don't want to know."

She zombies her way back into the room. One flat palm slapping against the wall for structural integrity. Bare feet squeaking and sticking against the floor. Sort of collapses on the bed. Curls onto her left side. One hand still fisting the black shirt.

And she doesn't move. For seconds, minutes, hours, days. She doesn't twitch, or blink. Just stares catatonic into space. On its fourteenth repetition, he stops his angry pace. His liver, or what he thinks is his liver, sloshes out of his open cavity and plops into a laundry basket of sordid panties. Is surprised they don't explode up into his face like confetti. "What the hell is going on?"

Then he notices her other hand. The hand with the ring full of diamonds. The hand not fisting black. The hand fisting white. A white stick. A white stick with a small pink plus. Then his eyes drop to her stomach. A tiny glow, about the size of a bean, hovers and flickers. The familiar glow of love, but in the wrong body. "Oh my God. You're pregnant."

Body bursts into a sitting position like she can hear him. Sobs again, fat tears snaking down her face. Buries her trembling lips and puffy eyes back into Sam's shirt. It envelops over her stomach, blocks out the shuddering light.

"Why are you crying? Isn't this a good thing?" Her crying. Her lack of a solution just irks on his rage. Each tear a small dab of gasoline to his fury. It creates false testimonies in his body. Feigns pumping blood faster to a heart that doesn't exist. Organs decompose. "Jules, you need to do something, because my liver is in your laundry basket."

There's a thump downstairs and the bedroom windows shake as the front door is forced closed. "Jules?"

Turns off her tear faucet. She inhales and bursts off the bed. Cuts through him again in the process. Fumbles around in the bathroom, with the clatter of objects before shutting the door. He realizes the test, the proof, everything is in the bathroom. She's hidden it. She's hiding it.

"No, Jules." Tries to grab her arm when she pads past him, but his fingers drift right through her flesh. In the process part of his intestines unravel and slap onto the floor like a dead fish. "You have to tell him."

Her hand circles over the comforter to clear away any creases. When he walks, the coil of his small intestine drags on the floor like a ball and chain. "You need to tell him."

She doesn't acknowledge him. Her shoulders rounding once as she stands from smoothing the bed out perfectly. "You're going to marry him. Why wouldn't you tell him? What are you going to do? You can't hide it forever. Or do you want to get rid of it?"

His concentration shatters. From having to lug a rapidly growing amount of intestine over pristine hardwood. From the lack of limbs. From seeing his liver nestled so softly in delicate unmentionables. From the aftertaste of almost feelings. From knowing what it's like to have his life end before it got a chance to really start.

And he reads her. Never wanted to. Doesn't mean to. But his brain, or the copy of it, is smudging. He instantly sees it all. Her mother's death from cancer when she was four. Her father's immediate decent into alcoholism. Spending a good chunk of her life in the solidarity of wheat fields. At seventeen when—

"Oh Jules." She stoops to collect the clothing, balances on her knees, breathing hyper regulated to clear away the flush which crept over her cheeks. His body crumples to the floor next to her. Synchs his no breathing to hers, calms his no body with hers. The ribbon of intestines scrolls its way up into his stomach cavity. Slouches, polite but on guard, waiting for his next false emotional torment to burst more organs out kamikaze style.

Tips his head forward and there's only stagnant laundry in the basket. Leans back crooked against the wall because touching her won't work for either of them. He sans limbs and she wouldn't feel it. "It won't be like that this time—"

"Sweetheart?" Sam's in the doorway, still in uniform which mean he's probably on lunch. Steps soundlessly into the room. While lowering himself at her spare side, his fingers tuck drooping hair behind her ear and he kisses the crown of her head. She closes her eyes at the embrace. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." She rests her head against his shoulder. His hand, the one not picking up socks and panties, encircles her body, hooks at her hip. The cluster of love in his chest beams golden, the same color as the small intrusion on her stomach. When his hand nears her naval it becomes active. Oscillates. Skitters. Generates the same positive energy any of Sam's other belongings do. His coat, his shirt, his car, his baby. "I just dropped the basket."

"You're sick, you should be resting." The last bunch of panties returns in a clump to the basket. Sam's hand seeks stability on her thigh as he rises, then falls to offer her help up. "I can do the rest of the laundry when I get home."

"Look at him. He deserves to know. It won't be like—"

"I just had a nap. I can't just lie around all day." Her hand fakes contact with his. Swats it out of the air as she uses her own body to stand. Knees wobble and elbows angle but she ends up on two feet without any assistance. He only smiles warmly at her, hints of respect and adoration for her embedded in the expression. "What's going on at HQ?"

"It was slow, so I went to that place you like downtown and got you some soup." Sam fixes her hair again, fingers fan her bangs. Hand lingers, slides to her forehead where he feels for a temperature. Can't keep his hands off her, but for none of the wrong reasons. "I figured you might be able to keep it down."

"Jules." He pops up beside her. The peace Sam brings to the situation loops his open torso up. No gash. Only the same uniform. Well not the same as Sam's. He's got the older one. Two or three or four or ten years older. "Tell the man."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Sam brushes a thumb over her cheekbone. Softly lets it drift over her closed eye. The full weight of her head rests in his hand as her fingers clasp yieldingly over his wrist. "You look like you've been crying."

"I think I might have a cold or something." And it's a flat-out lie. She just stares Sam right in the eyes and lies. It almost hurts him watching it, because he knows it hurts both of them. Knows it hurts her to do it, but she's so afraid of everything. Of her past, her present, her future. Of everything but the man in front of her. "Just sneezing a lot. Watery eyes, you know?"

He shifts. Obviously not going to get through to Jules who is stubborn a good reason. But he might be able to appeal to Sam through thousands of dimensional rifts. "Sam, come on. You noticed her crying. Put the symptoms together, Man."

"Yeah." Sam's lips press in mutual placation against her forehead. His fingers rubbing circles into her cheeks. "Go have some soup and lie down."

"You know basic medical shit. Put her symptoms together."

She doesn't leave the room because she's terrified of him accidentally stumbling into the bathroom and being exposed to the mosaic of life altering materials littering the bathroom much like the aborted wedding invitations on their dining room table. So she's back on the edge of the bed. A casual, nervous mess folding the odd pieces of clothing he tosses to her, and sneaking suspicious glances to the heavy handled door.

"Do you want me to make you a doctor's appointment?"

"No, I'm sure it'll go away in a day or two."

"Or nine months." Sniggers while reexamining the pictures on her dresser. The one where they're slow dancing under the halo of soft lights. Not dressed too formal but pressed close, eyes on each other, sharing the same euphoric grins. The other is him kissing her forehead. It looks like it was taken in the park under the shade of a tree. He's normal, pleasant, content. Just expressing adoration like the way he caresses her face, like the action is a simple blink. She's so much more invested. So much more involved. Like the peck on her forehead is stitching together the seams of her world.

"I have to go soon."

"Sam. Vomiting. If a woman is vomiting and you're hitting that, she's probably pre—"

But Sam advances towards the bathroom door. The door with the crystal knob. The door with white paint slightly flaking, maybe in humidity. The door separating him from the most important thing in the universe. From a tiny spark dancing within the woman he loves.

When she hops off the bed to stop him, the seven pairs of folded panties in her lap end up back on the floor. "Wait."

"What?"

"No Man."Gestures wildly to the door like some poor guy on an airplane tarmac during a foggy night. His left arm apparently returned home like a faithful old dog. It keeps warping through the closed door. "The bathroom. Go into the bathroom."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm—" Juts a thumb over his shoulder to the door and offers her a lopsided grin. "I'm going into the bathroom?"

"Do it." Shoves his head through the door. The white stick is on the counter in perfect view. He won't miss it. Can't miss it. He's a sniper. If he misses it, he needs to resign. "Come on Sam. Bathroom. You have to use the bathroom. You drank so much coffee. Too much coffee. You have to go into the bathroom. You just want to look at the bathroom. Something to do with the bathroom. Anything to do with the damn bathroom."

"Can you use the downstairs one?"

"Why?" His grin and eyebrows fall as he half laughs a little confused, a little concerned. Steps closer to the door. Fingers clawing over the crystal.

"You're so close Sam." If he was corporeal, he could shove Sam into the ensuite. "Seriously, I know this is going to make things weird between us, but going into this bathroom is going to be the most important thing to ever happen to you."

"Sam." She reaches out for him, straight fingers and urgent voice. Lips pursing white and eyes wildly aware, frightened under newborn puffiness. "If you love me, you won't go in there."

"No." Yells it, arms still flashing through the door. Not so loud that his left arm dismantles into oblivion again. But it's such a cheap way to win. She cheated. Sam is immediately going to roll over, pass her with his tail between his legs, not ask any further questions, and pretend that this day didn't happen. It's one of the reasons she loves him, because he doesn't pry.

Sam nods, his jaw square and set because he knows the rules of their relationship. His eyes sort of flicker, the swirl of love in his chest vibrates. A little bit of it disintegrates. The dot in Jules' abdomen withers. Blinks in and out like the battery needs to be changed.

"I do love you, Jules." Voice is quiet, but true. His entire expression mimics the steadiness of his body, until he suddenly twists around. "It's why I'm going inside."

"Yeah. Samtastic." High fives the back of Sam's head as he opens the door.

She doesn't respond. No overdramatic pleading. No throwing herself into the bathroom trying to protect what Sam deserves to know. Just resumes her passive position on the bed. Feet flat on the hardwood, legs crossed at the ankles, palms flat on her thighs. Just waits, but each of her fingers tremble to an individual rhythm.

"Jules." He stands in the small niche between her end table and dresser. Arms crossed successfully except for one neglected hand. Watches her attempt to control her fluttering lower lip. "It's better like this. You don't have to do this alone."

Sam exits the bathroom and doesn't say a word. Doesn't approach her. Doesn't look at her. Doesn't utter a single syllable. Just paces much like he did earlier, except Sam has all his body parts.

Lacing a quaking finger between her lips, her eyes dart up. When he doesn't acknowledge her, she finally asks, "What are you thinking?"

He exhales harshly, almost a dry chuckle. Stops his pendulum momentum and puffs out his chest. "I'm wondering why you would hide this from me. Why when we love each other. Why when we're getting married. I'm wondering why I always have to tell you exactly how I feel and never get to hear how you feel. So I'm not telling you a damn thing until you tell me why you wanted to hide this."

"It's a baby." His jaw is slack. His left arm begins to dissipate again. "You guys are going to have a baby. Can't either of you take a single second to be happy?"

Jules slumps on the bed. Head bowing in nameless defeat in a battle that isn't really a battle. The glow of their baby diffuses to a weak sputter, it remains inactive. She doesn't offer any form of an answer.

"I have to go back to work." Sam marches right by her, doesn't sit beside her and try to coax the answer out of her. Doesn't revel in their new creation. Just stomps to the doorway. "Maybe we can talk about this when I get home, if you're willing."

"No. No. No." Zips through Sam. Tries to push him back into the room, but his arms are as fragmented as their relationship. Tries to kick him back into the room. Everything just falls through. "You don't get to say stuff like that and then just leave. You don't know what—"

"When I was seventeen I got pregnant."

Sam halts in the outline of the doorway. His back to her, maybe so she can't gauge his reaction. The reaction which he's desperately trying to keep void of emotions, but there are little breaks. Little peaks of concern, sympathy, just a miniscule touch of jealousy.

"I found out about a month before graduation. My dad kicked me out. My boyfriend broke up with me. I didn't care because I could do it. I moved in with one of my brothers, I graduated, I found a fulltime job." Her voice wavers. Crickets and creaks like a rope bridge in the wind because she's crying again. The same fat tears but no shirt, no comfort to hide them in. "I did everything right Sam. Everything. But I lost it."

"Jules—" The distress in her voice causes him to return. Creep back into the room, stalk near the bed, like he's afraid to sit down. Maybe the way he treated her, maybe he's afraid she'll turn him away.

The heels of her palms swipe at her re-puffed eyes. She shakes her head solemnly. In desolation. "One minute I was making lunch and the next I was in the hospital. I didn't even have anyone to come and pick me up."

"Do something." Whips his stubs at Jules. Face red and blotchy. Shiny in the weak afternoon light. Sam pressured her to divulge her past and he's not receptive. If he was alive, even if he had no idea what was going on, if he saw her in this state, saw anyone in this state, even now, he knows they need comfort. They do it, do it for their job, for a complete stranger, but can't offer the person they love most in the world the human value of empathy or sympathy?

The bed squeaks as Sam sits beside her. He doesn't touch her. Keeps his hands in his lap. Doesn't need to be touching her now. Apparently before his concern for her cold was fine, but now it's too much. Apparently before when they were drunk off their asses on champagne in a hotel room and forget protection it was fine, but now—

"You're afraid you're going to lose it?"

"I'm afraid I'm going to lose everything. It. You. My job—"

Slides his hand across the comforter and find hers. An automatic reaction occurs. Mechanized, like the press of a button, where their fingers mesh perfectly together. "You're not going to lose me, Jules. You're stuck with me until I die. And even after that I'll probably haunt you."

"Hey." He points a stubby warning at Sam. "Not funny, Man."

"Your job is something you'll have to decide on. But the baby—" Scooting over on the bed he melts against her. His face nuzzles into her neck; her hand ruffles through his hair. Fingers caresses down her arm until they rest over her clothed stomach. Underneath the glowing dot shimmies with excitement. "This baby is part you and me. It's all fighter."

"But—"

Their faces are even so the tip of his nose kisses hers. "No matter what happens, we're in this together."

"I told you, Jules." Gloats because he knows his friends better than they do sometimes. Then again, he gets wide vacations away from existence. Expanses filled with lazy arm circles lapping him like the propeller of a boat and extensive psych profiles in his brain about his previous teammates.

"So?"

"So?"

"What did you think?"

She's half in his lap. One leg from the thigh down draped over his. Both arms linking around his neck, fingers tapping while she waits for his answer. His arms support her back; keep her from toppling them over. Naturally, like when he reached for her hand, he folds up her shirt slightly and strokes her stomach.

"The first thing I thought was how much I love this baby already. Then how lucky I am that you're with me. That you love me, and I love you, and we did this."

"Now you guys are making me kind of sick." His nose twitches in a sense of mock disgust as he turns away from the sentimental moment. The atmosphere of the room has serenity to it now. His trunk stubs have grown into long arm branches complete with budding fingers. "Can't you find a medium between hating each other and being sickly happy?"

"Of course, then I thought, 'I hope she knows I'm not leaving her alone for the next nine months'."

"Hmm." Purrs with ignited annoyance. Hands drop from his neck and push back on his shoulders. "Don't you have to go back to work?"

Sam pokes at the firefly in her stomach. It jitters. "Wait, what's that?"

"Can you see it?" After all it is Sam's biological luminescence. If anyone but him should be able to see it, it's Sam. He should at least be able to recognize some of its base properties since he was the one who put it there. Wonders if Jules can.

"Very funny, Sam."

"No, I'm serious." Body curves at his shoulders, hunches forward to give her stomach closer inspection. "That wasn't there last night."

She nods down, more concerned now. "What? What is—"

Sam glues his open lips to her stomach and bursts out a gust of air, which is accompanied by a loud, less than romantic sound.

"Sam." His name is definitely a stern warning as she tries to smack him off her stomach, but then it grows to bubbling laughter probably from the sensation. The glow inside vibrates so fast it's almost a solid line. "Sam. Okay, okay stop."

"I miss when my liver was in your laundry."

"Okay. Okay." She laughs over another blubbering kiss on her stomach. Finally shoves the side of his face away and fixes her shirt. "You have to go back to work."

Sam finally riding on the pre-parent high, uses the force of her shove against her. Grabs her wrist and yanks her off the bed. "We have to tell the guys."

"Yes." He perks up. Wants to see all the reactions. Sarge who loves all things younger than him. Ed who probably thinks he's the only one who can have an accident baby. Spike who will—oh boy Spike is going to go insane.

"No, Sam. It's too early what if—"

"Then it happens." His hand finds hers again. Automated, welded together against her stomach and the happy flicker within. "We should enjoy this. Plus there's no way I'm letting you back out into the field."

Her eyebrows fall in what he thinks is consideration for loss of her job, but then she admits, "Spike is going to go insane."

"Called it."

"Good." Bends at his waist so he's level with her stomach. Grins like an idiot while speaking to what he only sees as a gray long-sleeved shirt. "I need someone to help me on protection detail."

"Hey, I'll help out too." Not sure what he would do. Could do. But having him around couldn't hurt.

"Fine but—"

But he blips out. Back into the abyss. Back into oblivion. Back into the universe contained in a grain of sand. Back into his coffin in a black hole. He'll never get to know how the Team reacted. Never gets to have shared experiences with them. Shared important memories. Never gets to see them all at a single place when something extraordinary happens. The last time was when he stepped on a landmine. Saw their faces lined up from behind squad cars. Even then they stranded him on a different channel.

"Do you do this on purpose?" It doesn't even echo. Maybe he doesn't even say it. Maybe he doesn't even have a mouth anymore. Maybe it's in the universe's laundry basket.

Wonders how old their baby will be when he shoots back down to the GTA. If Sam will overprotect her. Will overparent the baby. How the Team will treat her. How long it will take Spike to retain a semblance of normality. Wonders overall if the baby will be okay.

His head cranes upwards, stretches out ever vertebrae. Last time he yelled forward. This time he'll yell above. "Hey, if you could send me down more often I won't complain. There are people I love down there. And I sort of made an unnoticed promise."


End file.
